Killing That Which I Hold Dear
by warrior of the nile
Summary: Sherlock knew John would be angry with him when he came back. After all, he's not that much of an idiot. But what he didn't expect was for John to pull out his bisexuality enough for a quick, angry wall shag before he ran. Of course there are more problems with this than the obvious ones.


This is what season 3 has reduced me to. Seriously, I have no idea. This plot just popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. It has no respect for the fact that I said I would never write smut. No respect at all. I almost didn't post it, but you see how well that worked.  
title inspired by Diamonds for Tears by Poets of the Fall

* * *

"Parents huh? So they knew too? You let them in on your little secret as well?" John asks angrily. Sherlock could tell he had come over to talk to Sherlock again. Calmly this time. Most likely prompted by the fact that he _had_ saved his life- even if it _was_ most likely his fault that John had been targeted in the first place. But now...

"Of course, I couldn't actually let them believe..." Sherlock trails off. _Stupid_ he chides himself in his mind _stupid, idiot, bloody moron._ That is the last thing he should have said. John does not need the implications of that statement, never mind he didn't mean it like that.

"Oh, so you couldn't let _them_ grieve, but letting _me_ grieve is all fine and dandy." Sherlock can see the anger rising in the doctor by the second. The need to punch Sherlock, to physically hurt him like he hurt John, is barely being held back. But he does. "Sod this," he walks towards the door.

"John-"

At Sherlock's call he stops, pausing by the closed door, hand reaching for the handle. Neither say anything for a long drawn out moment, then Sherlock moves closer.

He lays a hand softly on John's shoulder. "Sorry," he mummers. He doesn't know what else to say. He has never been good at emotions and now he is so far out of his depth that before too long he'll drown without any help. Maybe he already is.

"Sorry doesn't cut it Sherlock." John's shoulder is tense under his hand. Sherlock should probably move it, considering he can feel the violent tension building inside his friend again, but he doesn't.

"Then tell me what does," he practically begs. _Anything_. He would do anything for John to realize how sorry he is, how much he regrets having to hurt him like this, how much he just wants to make things right. "Anything," he whispers, not realizing he spoke out loud until John turns around.

"_Anything,_" he spits out, "anything would have been letting me know you were alive, anything would have been coming back sooner, anything would have not been doing it in the first place!" John is shouting by now, mere seconds from lashing out.

"John, I-"

"Anything," John continues, not even pausing to hear what Sherlock has to say, "would have been not making me watch you jump, not making me think that I failed my fucking best friend, the person who meant the most to me!"

Sherlock's brain stutters at John's words, both at the implications and the past tense. "Best friend?" he asks tentatively.

"Oh you sodding-" He grabs Sherlock by the shirt and slams him into the wall next to the door. But instead of the punch Sherlock is expecting, John kisses him. Hard. "You sodding, idiotic, stupid-" He kisses him again. Grabs the back of Sherlock's neck and doesn't let go. His other hand buries itself in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock kisses him back fiercely. _Finally._ Finally after all of these years, after the damn Pool incident, he has John Watson in his arms. Never mind that John has reopened the wounds on his back- again. Never mind that this rough treatment is killing his cracked ribs. Never mind that he wishes John would slow down, be gentler. None of that matters because John is finally kissing him like he wants him as much as Sherlock wants John.

The kiss seems to go on for ages. John acts like he wants to devour Sherlock right then and there. And God, Sherlock would let him. It is a clash of teeth and tongue and John splits Sherlock's lower lip on the other side for a matching pair of cuts. They break for air and John begins to attack Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock tilts his head back, allowing for better access, which John takes full advantage of. He kisses and licks and nips before biting down on the junction of his neck and shoulder then sucking on it. Sherlock knows this will cause a large bruise, but he doesn't care right now. He arches towards John, biting off a groan as he does, desperate for more. More contact, more pleasure, more everything. He will never get enough of John Watson.

John gasps as their hips align, the feeling of cock on cock sending sparks through them both, despite the layers of clothing in the way. Clearly he wants more too because he reaches down between them and runs a hand down Sherlock's obvious erection.

Sherlock moans.

"You like that?" John's voice is rough with arousal and anger, still so much anger, but Sherlock no longer cares.

"Yes, yes!" He moans again. "Anything. Please John, anything."

"And if I want to fuck you? Take you right against this wall here and now? Push my cock so far up your arse you won't be able to walk straight for a week?"

"Please," he whines, "please John, _please._"

"That's the most I've ever heard you use that word. Should have known this would be the only way to get you to say it. You're a little slut aren't you?"

Sherlock can only whine as John applies more pressure.

"But only good sluts get to enjoy themselves. And you haven't been good, have you?"

"N-no" Sherlock stutters out.

"No you haven't." John's voice drops another octave. "No, you've been bad. Bad sluts need to be punished." John squeezes Sherlock's cock, to the point of almost pain. Then he releases him, only to undo his trousers and pants. He touches him again, feather soft and Sherlock shutters.

"_John,_" he begs.

John presents three finger in front of his face. "Suck," he orders.

Sherlock obeys eagerly, knowing exactly where this is going and happy to move it right along. The endorphins in his system are making it easier to ignore his injuries. He feels another twinge as John presses into him harder, but he ignores it. He has always been able to separate his body from his mind, to a certain extend, so ignoring the pain is almost an after thought. He doesn't have time for it, not now. And besides, it's all just transport.

When his fingers are wet enough, John pulls them out of Sherlock's mouth. They are dripping with saliva as John moves them lower, pushes the first one into Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock gasps at the feeling. It feels more like an intrusion then something pleasurable. His body tenses as if the push it out. But he forces himself to relax. He must relax and quickly, because John isn't giving him any time to adjust. He doesn't pause to make sure he's alright. He barely pauses before adding another finger.

He squirms and wiggles on the fingers impaling him, pushing in and out of his body. But then John hits a spot inside of him and Sherlock sees stars. He had always thought that the saying was an exaggeration, something hormonal, sentimental idiots made up to make their basic need for sex seem like something special. But no, Sherlock is fairly sure he saw stars. Aries, or Orion perhaps.

He knows the stars now. In his time away, he had memorized them. It gave him something to focus on other than hunting down Moriarty's web. They kept him grounded. He had fully intended to show off him new knowledge to John on his return. To show him that he is human, he can be normal and look what he now knows to prove it.

But any thoughts of the solar system fly out of his mind as John adds a third fingers. Now Sherlock squirms down on the fingers, wanting more. The stretch burns, but he welcomes it. It means John is still with him, still wants him. He can't help the groan he makes when John removes his fingers. It feels so empty, now that he had gotten use to the feeling.

John chuckles darkly and, finally, removes his cock from his trousers. "Suck," he orders again, "you're going to want to get this nice and wet before I shove it into that tight arse of yours."

Sherlock drops to his knees, anxious to obey. It jars his ribs, making them ache all the more, but he doesn't care, he ignores them. John is hard and leaking and Sherlock wonders what he tastes like. He doesn't have to wait long to know. He takes John into his mouth without hesitation. It is a bitter, salty taste and he isn't sure how he feels about it, but John enjoys it.

He puts his hands in Sherlock's hair and urges him in farther. Sherlock hums experimentally and John groans in response. He repeats it and soon John's grips tightens and he starts to do more than just urge- he controls. John is essentially fucking his face and Sherlock lets him, controlling his gag reflex and his breathing. He is gripping John's thighs tightly and making sure to lather his tongue over him, wetting him thoroughly.

"God, Sherlock," John moans as he finally pulls off, "that _mouth_. Knew it had to be good for something. Now up," he commands.

Sherlock complies and John slams him into the wall once again. This time when he gasps it's not from pleasure, but from the agony that just shot through his ribs. There is a distinct possibility that John-

But Sherlock never finishes that thought. John has made good of his promise and has pushed his cock in as far as he can in one swift motion. The breath goes out of him. It is clear now that while John _had_ prepared him, he danced the fine line between enough and not so much. He obviously landed just on the line itself. It burns, more than three fingers, much more, but there is no danger of tearing. John may want to hurt him, but he doesn't want to give him lasting damage. He thinks...

John pulls out fully and thrusts back in again, hard. He pins Sherlock's hands against the wall as he does. "Now listen here you little slut. You are going to do as I say, no smart comments, no mouthing off, no clever retorts. I am going to pound into this pretty, tight arse of yours. You are going to come from my cock alone or you aren't going to come at all, got it?"

He thrusts in again. Sherlock moans. Being a doctor, it didn't take John long to once again locate his prostate.

"I said, got it?" John squeezes Sherlock's wrists.

"Yes John, yes!"

"Good." John begins to thrust in earnest.

The pain is soon forgotten from his prostate being struck repeatedly. Again and again John pushes in and out of him and all Sherlock can do is cling to him and whine and moan like the slut John accuses him of being. The irony is not lost on Sherlock, but soon even that thought slips away. Everything slips away except for the pleasure John is giving him and the jarring of his wounds as he is pushed harder into the wall.

He can feel his orgasm building as John's thrusts become more erratic. He honestly didn't think he was going to be able to achieve climax without any stimulation to his cock. He knows statistically it isn't likely. And perhaps in most cases it isn't and he wouldn't be able to. But this is John and John ordered his to and there isn't anything he wouldn't do for John Watson.

He feels close, so close as John slams into him one final time. He watches as John spills into him and he wants, wants _so badly_ to tip the scale. He needs just a touch, just a brush to push him over the edge. "Please John, _please._" he whines, he begs, his whole being straining for thus untold pleasure.

But then John moans his name, "_Sherlock._" And there is something so erotic, so desirable, about hearing John say his name _just like that_, that it is enough. He comes with a cry that may have been a wordless shout or "Oh God" or "Yes", but was most probably "John!"

Sherlock collapses against the wall, completely spent. He can barely find the energy to open his eyes to watch John slump against him, equally tired, anger finally dispersing. Both men pant, leaning against one another, neither saying a thing.

Finally Sherlock starts, "John-"

And John jerks like he's just been slapped. Adrenaline and disbelief flood back into his eyes, as well as a hint of that terrible anger. "Shit! Shit, bloody fucking, goddamnit, fucking bloody hell-" he curses.

"John," Sherlock repeats, worried now.

John stumbles back from Sherlock as if he is some terrible disease. Sherlock reaches out, trying to comfort his friend- lover?- or at least calm him down.

"Don't touch me," he hisses venomously, "Don't you dare fucking touch me you sick-" He cuts himself off, but Sherlock can hear the word 'freak' as if it was being shouted. After all, isn't that how that saying goes?

But whether John means to say that word or not, it doesn't matter. He will never know because he is out the door and down the steps before Sherlock can fully process the situation. The slamming of the front door lets him know that John has left the building.

Sherlock closes his own door to the flat and locks it for good measures before sinking down to the floor, shaking. Now that the endorphins have worn off, Sherlock can feel the full extend of his injuries. His back has been reopened- again, for the third time; the first being his return and the second being when he pulled John from the fire- his need to lay down and control his breathing confirms his suspicion that his ribs are now broken, his arse is sore and wet- with ejaculation, not, thankfully, _surprisingly_, any blood- and his head and lips aches.

It's a good thing Mrs Hudson wasn't in to hear all of this. People would definitely talk then. He chuckles to himself without any real humor. This whole situation wasn't anything he could have predicted. After all, who would have imagined John "I'm Not Gay"/"We Aren't A Couple" Watson to actually pull out his obvious bisexuality enough to have an angry wall shag with his ex best friend? Certainly not him, which is another irony right there. Two for two, he _is_ still good. He huffs out another humorless laugh.

Nothing has gone the way he hoped since his return. He no longer has the control he has striven so long to achieve, his _emotions _are running rampant and obviously his fantasies- hopes- are clouding his logic. Had he honestly thought John would _want _him _and _want to keep him afterward? This whole afternoon is better forgotten. After all, virginity is a highly overrated concept.

Sherlock slowly lifts himself off of the floor with the help of the doorway and goes to tend his wounds.

* * *

Sherlock solves the case- of course he does, he refuses to lose, especially now when the only thing that is the same, that is still stable, is the Work. And better yet he solves it with John at his side. Not like old times, he couldn't even begin to make that mistake. John is tense and uncomfortable and he looks ready to flee if Sherlock even so much as looks at him wrong. But he is here.

Sherlock gives himself a mental shake. He is here because he doesn't trust Sherlock not to mess up. He could be captured or killed and then where would the safety of Queen and Country be? Gone because one stupid detective couldn't control himself. Still a Queen and Country man, is John Watson.

Still, it is a comfort to have him by his side, even if it is an inconvenience. He has to be careful about how he moves. He can't jar his ribs too much, but he can't appear to be in pain either. Never mind that _breathing_, let alone walking or running, is an agony. It doesn't matter. He has a government to protect, a- tattered, still even after his name has been cleared- reputation to maintain and a Dr Watson to not disappoint. Letting Parliament blow up is more than a Bit Not Good.

He closes his eyes briefly when he sees the bomb squad come into view. Finally, it's over. When he opens them again, he notices that John is staring at him, brows furrowed. He always gets that look when Sherlock has done something unusually surprising.

"Oh of course I called the bomb squad John, don't be an idiot." He voices sounds petulant, tired. There is none of his normal post case elevation for a puzzle well solved. He has no energy to feel it. All he wants to do is go home and lay on the couch for at least a week without moving. Cases are out for a while. Truthfully he didn't really want this one. The only excitement he had was to return to London- to John- not the Work. The Work has been constant, demanding and exhausting these past two years. A temporary split would do them good.

John's frown deepens. "Are you okay Sherlock?" he asks carefully.

"Yes, yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? I solved the bloody case didn't I?" His tone is much too bitter. He needs to leave before he does something regrettable, like throw a tantrum or cry.

He leaves the Tube carriage behind, walking as briskly as he can bear. John follows him and continues to follow even as he hails a cab and gives his address.

"Shouldn't you be going home? Mary will be worried." The word home leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Home is no longer 221B for John.

"She'll be fine. I sent her a text."

Sherlock snorts, but doesn't argue. He doesn't have the energy.

The ride back to the flat is silent. When Sherlock exits the cab after paying the fare, John stays right at his heels, not even giving him the option of running away. Not that he would. Even the thought of running makes him nauseous. He hasn't been able to ignore the pain since John left.

"You're hurt," he announces once the door is closed.

"Brilliant deduction." Sherlock knows denial is useless. Better to just get it out and over with. John is like a dog with a bone when he thinks Sherlock is less than okay. Stubborn to the core.

"How did you get hurt? I was with you the entire time. Did you do something stupid before I got here?"

_Yes you were and yes I did. I let you pound me into the wall. Not my brightest plan, but what the heart wants... _

"_What?_" John gasps.

"Oh, that came out? Forgive me, I am not quite use to not verbalizing all of my thoughts out loud yet. A week is such a short time to break a two year habit," he says with forced nonchalance. John does not need to hear this. He does not need the added guilt. It wasn't his fault. Sherlock could have stopped him, but he didn't. He knew fully well that if he let it continue John would not be gentle. No need to let him know the full extent of his action.

"No. No, you are not doing that. What do you mean that by all of that?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Surely you don't need _that _spelled out for you John. You ran out of here so fast that someone might have thought a madman was chasing after you. And I wasn't."

"Madman, funny, ha ha. But that doesn't explain how you got injured now does it."

"Details," Sherlock waves a hand.

"Which you usually love, so it's a bit odd that you are reluctant to state them now."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but John stops him.

"Fine, no details yet. But I am looking at your wounds. Now." He uses his army voice and Sherlock can't do anything but obey. This is a John Watson that means business.

Sherlock carefully takes off his coat and shirt, trying not to jostle anything. A pair of hands help him along. Then all that is left are the bandages. "Sit," John commands and Sherlock sits gingerly on the couch while John retrieves the first aide kit from the loo. He wonders when John stopped being uncomfortable and began to feel responsible for him all over again. Especially when he made it clear that he wanted nothing more than to forget him and his actions earlier. He almost wishes he would go back to that. Then he would be alone, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with any unpleasant questions either.

Soon those same pair of hands return and are unwrapping the bloodstained cloth from his back. "Jesus Christ Sherlock! What the hell?!" Obviously his back is now visible.

"A souvenir from Siberia," he replies drily.

"Some souvenir. Did you at least get your money back?"

"No refund policy."

They return to silence as John disinfects all of the cuts and puts a thin layer of cream over top. Sherlock manages to contain himself until John presses too hard on a rib. Then he hisses in pain.

"Ribs too," John mutters as he gently probes them. "You do realize that three are broken correct?"

Sherlock can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. "Yes."

"And yet you chose to run around London anyways?"

"Irrelevant. I could have hardly let Parliament be blown up now could I?"

"No, but you _could_ have told someone else who was capable of handling it."

"I am capable!" Sherlock snaps, hurt by the implication that he is no longer good enough. Even if that isn't exactly what John meant.

"Capable? _Capable?!_ Sherlock! You have three broken ribs, at least two more are likely cracked, and butchered meat looks better than your back right now! That is not alright."

"I had a case to solve and I solved it."

"Oh yes, _the Work._ How dare anything get in the road of your precious Work. Because that's all that matters, isn't it?"

Something in Sherlock snaps. He leaps off the couch and turns angrily to face an equally furious John Watson. "Will you just _shut up? _I am tired of your pity act-"

"Pity act!-"

"Oh look at me, I had to watch my friend die. Oh woe is me! I didn't have to spend two years tracking down a criminal web, terrified of making one mistake lest the three people I care about die. I wasn't on constant vigilance, I wasn't shot at or stabbed, I didn't have people actively trying to kill me, I didn't get captured and tortured, I didn't learn the constellations to stay sane or to impress anyone when I came back, I didn't have to worry the entire time about the emotional pain I was causing him, if he had moved on and forgotten about me or not, if he would hate me or not-"

"Sherlock-"

"I didn't come back to see that I was right, that he had moved on and replaced me. I didn't come back to see the man I love about to propose to another. I didn't come back to see that he _did _hate me-"

"Sherlock-"

"I didn't come back to the only person that mattered so angry with me he couldn't stand to see my face. I didn't come back to have my love break open my back by tackling me, try to strangle me, punch me, _fuck me _against the wall so hard that my ribs broke and my back broke open _again_-"

"Sherlock-"

"I didn't have my first time be from angry and hate. I didn't have my virginity taken and then the man I went through hell for look at me like trash! I didn't have him run away from me like the gay was catching! No! I just had to sit in my cosy new flat, with my cosy new girlfriend and my wonderful new life _without the Freak!_"

Silence rang through the flat. Sherlock's breath is ragged from all of the pent up thoughts and emotions he just unleashed on an unsuspecting John.

A John who looks like his world just dropped from underneath him. "Oh God, Jesus, _Sherlock_," he gasps. "Sherlock, I had no idea."

Sherlock looks away, all the adrenaline draining out of him, leaving him even more tired and sore than before. "Just leave John. Go back to your home, to Mary, and forget about me. I'll be fine."

"No."

"_Please,_" he begs. He just wants this to be over. To be left alone to let his heart break in peace.

"No Sherlock. I'm sorry, but I won't, I _can't_ let it end like this. I can't forget about you. I spent two year trying to get over your death and I still couldn't do it. I can't let things end here. And I'm sorry I've been such a shit best friend during all of this. I was hurt, so very hurt, but that's no excuse. I should have listened to you. And nothing can make up for what I did to hurt you, to take what I did so carelessly. Your first time should be special, or at least enjoyable. You shouldn't have had to endured it."

"I wanted it," Sherlock defends.

"But not like that," John adds softly.

Sherlock can't argue with that.

John comes up behind him and hugs him gently. "And I can't go back to Mary because I have loved you for far longer." He presses a kiss to his shoulder. "I can't go home if I'm already here."

"_John._" Sherlock's voice is wrecked. "_please,_" he whispers, starting to shake.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes. I love you with everything I am."

Sherlock's shaking get worse. John turns him gently around and kisses him softly on the lips. "Now let's finish bandaging you up."

John's hands are incredibly careful as he works. When he is done he goes back into the loo for paracetamol and water. Sherlock swallows the pills gratefully. John then takes Sherlock's hands and guides him up and towards his room. "Come on, time to sleep. We can deal with everything else in the morning."

"John." That seems to be the only word Sherlock is capable of saying currently.

"Shh, it's alright love. Your body needs it to heal." He strips the detective down to his pants and guides him into bed before turning out the lights.

Sherlock whimpers.

"Shh, love, shh. I'm joining you, just let me get undressed." John is good to his word and quickly strips before getting in beside the genius. It takes some maneuvering, but finally they find a spot that is relatively comfortable, with Sherlock wrapped around John.

With John in his arms, Sherlock is able to regather some semblance of calm. There's still an edge of disbelief that John is here, that he wants him, that he is going to leave Mary for him, but as John said, this can wait until morning. He needs his higher brain function on line to fully reassure himself and right now it isn't.

John sorrowfully runs a hand along the bandages. "You do know you aren't a freak, don't you?" he asks quietly.

"'Don't touch me you sick freak.' That's the saying. Don't touch me you sick _freak._"

John sighs. "I know that's how it goes. But at the time I was being an arse and projecting my feeling onto you. I wasn't disgusted by you, I was horrified with myself. You came back, just like I wished you would and all I did was be violent towards you. It wasn't fair to you and I'm so sorry. But I would _never_ call you a freak. Never. That's actually what made me run. I almost finished my sentence, carelessly. Fortunately my brain caught up with mouth before I added to my sins against you. You will always be amazing and brilliant and fantastic to me, even when you're being a bloody git of a genius. I want you to be my mad hatter. Always."

Sherlock is about purring in sleepy pleasure. John's word are like a balm to his rioting emotions. "Love you too," he mummers, the words coming out slightly slurred as sleep takes him.

John kisses his nose. "I'll make it up to you love, I promise."

Sherlock is too tired to reply verbally that he already has. He is here and he intends to stay. That is enough for him.


End file.
